Psychological
Memory
All he had in his life was memory. The house sagged beneath the weight of years, timber groaning under rain and neglect. He moved through its narrow halls like a ghost, brushing dust from the shelves, touching remnants of lives once lived. Each object held her imprint, every shadow whispered her name.
By Vincent Otiriabout a year ago in Fiction
Duty
All he had in his life was duty. The armor leaned against the wall, dented and scratched by decades of war. Each mark was a story, a memory of battles fought under scorching suns and storm-filled skies. His hands trembled as he polished the breastplate, tracing the gouges like a map of every life he had taken, every friend he had lost.
By Vincent Otiriabout a year ago in Fiction
The Rules of the Street
The train screeched into the underground station; its brakes shrilled against steel. Joey stepped inside, careful as always. The ride was short—barely two miles—but in the city, distance mattered less than timing. Two miles could feel like a lifetime if you broke the rules.
By Anthony Chanabout a year ago in Fiction
a bad sign
The long, white, seemed to somehow get closer together as they carried his view forward. The building had once been full of screaming kids and struggling parents. The kids wanted the right toy, the food not a focus till the toy was checked. The tantrums seemed to move around the room as more young customers opened their boxes, dug through the food to see what moulded plastic laid at the bottom.
By ASHLEY SMITHabout a year ago in Fiction
Cash Back
It began at the local variety store. Overnight, someone or some company installed a portable ATM on the front stoop of Michael’s Convenience Store. Old Man Michael, who only opened the store on weekdays, did not see what happened on the previous weekend. He did not remember placing a call to have it put there, and he knew that there was still a local bank that had their machines “well up and robbing us” (as he said to any of the familiar customers who asked about it). There was no phone or serial number on it (he looked around it twice), but he could see that it was connected to the main power grid – not taking power from his store and raising his bills, he thought – and he left it there, untouched and he was unimpressed. Let them charge whatever they want if people are that dumb. He opened his store and waited to see if he would have to explain what was going on outside.
By Kendall Defoe about a year ago in Fiction
The Enchanted Cottage
Jan and Zack sat facing the ocean, huddled close, as the cool breeze blew on their back. The dog days of summer were ending. It had been everything that a summer could be. They had purchased their new home and moved in and still had another week to settle in before they would have to go back to work.
By Katherine D. Grahamabout a year ago in Fiction
A Calming Sleep Story: The Night Train to Transylvania
The Journey Begins It was a quiet night when the train station, tucked away in the heart of the Carpathian Mountains, began to glow under the silver moonlight. The platform stood almost deserted, except for a few travelers holding their coats tighter against the gentle night breeze. The clock above the station slowly ticked toward midnight, and soon, the sound of steel wheels whispered through the valley. The night train to Transylvania had arrived. Its arrival was soft, not loud or hurried like daytime trains. Instead, it moved with a rhythm that seemed almost alive, humming like a lullaby meant to calm tired souls. Its carriages gleamed faintly under the stars, their windows glowing with warm, golden light. You stepped onto the platform, your footsteps echoing gently as though the earth itself was guiding you toward the journey. The conductor, an elderly man with kind eyes and a voice that seemed to carry the wisdom of centuries, tipped his hat and welcomed you. “Welcome aboard,” he said softly. “This train doesn’t just take you to Transylvania—it takes you to rest.” And so, you stepped inside. --- Inside the Night Train The interior of the train was unlike any you had ever seen. Plush velvet seats, deep shades of burgundy and forest green, lined the carriage. The lamps glowed dimly, spreading a soft amber light, just bright enough to make the world feel safe but quiet enough to invite sleep. You found a seat by the window. Outside, the mountains stretched endlessly, painted with silver moonlight. Pines swayed slowly in the wind, and faraway villages twinkled with tiny candle-like lights. The rhythmic sound of the train wheels clicking on the track began to sync with your heartbeat—slow, steady, comforting. A soft chime echoed through the carriage. It wasn’t an announcement, but rather a gentle tone, almost like wind chimes swaying in the night. Then came the aroma—lavender and chamomile drifting through the air, soothing every restless thought. A lady in a long flowing dress walked by, offering tea in small porcelain cups. The steam curled upward like smoke from a dream. “Chamomile, with honey,” she whispered. “To help your journey.” You held the cup between your hands, feeling its warmth travel into your body. As you sipped, the sweetness melted into your senses, and your eyes grew heavier, calmer, softer. --- The Passing Villages The train rolled past ancient villages where time seemed to stand still. You watched from the window as cobblestone streets appeared in the moonlight, old houses with slanted roofs, and church towers with bells that swayed silently against the wind. At one station, only a black cat sat waiting on the platform, its green eyes glowing softly as it watched the train pass by. At another, an old violinist played a tune so quiet that it reached the train as if carried by the night air. The melody was slow, like a cradle song, echoing long after the station faded into the distance. The world outside became slower, as though every village, every hill, every whispering forest was inviting you to leave your worries behind. --- Through the Carpathian Mountains As the train entered the deeper mountains, mist rose between the trees. The forests were thick, their shadows dark and mysterious, but not frightening—rather, they felt protective, like ancient guardians watching over travelers of the night. The train’s steady rhythm guided you further into a dreamlike state. Outside the window, you thought you saw figures carved into the mist—dancers swirling in silence, shadows bowing and fading, and lights that moved like floating lanterns. Perhaps they were tricks of the fog, or perhaps the mountains themselves were telling their timeless stories. The conductor walked by again. “We are entering the quiet hours now,” he said softly. His words were like silk, and every syllable seemed to slow your breath. The lights in the carriage dimmed further. Only the glow of the moon and stars filtered through the window now. The sound of the wheels on the tracks became your lullaby, and soon, you could feel your body sinking deeper into the seat, surrendering to rest. --- A Dream Within the Journey You weren’t sure when exactly you drifted into a dream. Perhaps it was when the mist thickened, or when the violin melody returned in the distance. You found yourself walking through a forest bathed in silver light. Fireflies hovered like tiny lanterns, lighting your path. The air was cool and smelled of pine, and every step felt lighter, as though gravity had softened. You followed the path until it opened into a clearing. There, you saw the train again, waiting silently, but now it stood on tracks that seemed to float in the sky. The stars shimmered like diamonds, and the moon was close enough to touch. Someone called your name—not loudly, not frighteningly, but gently, like a parent calling a child back home. You turned, and there was no one. Only the endless night, beautiful and infinite, inviting you to let go. And then, slowly, the forest faded, and you found yourself back in the train seat, still holding the warmth of chamomile tea in your hands. --- Arrival in Transylvania The conductor returned once more as the train slowed. His voice was barely above a whisper. “We’ve arrived,” he said. Outside the window, the sky was turning pale with dawn. The mountains glowed with the first light of morning, their shadows retreating as golden rays touched their peaks. Villages awoke slowly—chimneys released soft curls of smoke, and distant roosters greeted the day. You stepped off the train, the wooden platform warm beneath your feet despite the cool morning air. The town was calm, peaceful, wrapped in the embrace of history and nature. And though you had reached Transylvania, you realized the true journey was not to this place, but to the rest you had found within yourself. The night train had carried you not only across mountains and valleys but into a space of deep stillness. And as you walked toward the waking village, the words of the conductor lingered in your heart: “Some trains take you places. Others take you to peace.”
By Umar Farooqabout a year ago in Fiction
Herbert. Top Story - August 2025.
A hulking figure stood in the doorway. He smelled like whiskey and clenched a cigar between his teeth. It had a cherry scent adding a pleasant smell to an otherwise horrible one. Brad and Wendy turn and their faces twist in horror. Herbert revs his chain saw; then he lets out a terrifying squeal while chasing after the couple. Wendy bashes the clown over the head. Glass shatters and candy goes everywhere. Herbert shakes his head. Brad drives his shoulder into Herbert’s belly. The clown lets out a grunt as he staggers backwards and crashes through the coffee table. The terrified couple tries fleeing out the back door.
By DJ Robbinsabout a year ago in Fiction
